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  “Sure,” the reporter said.

  “Okay. I don’t think young girls should need role models. I think they should grow up on their own. But if they do need role models, it’s dumb to use somebody who’s on television. They should use someone they know. A teacher, maybe, or an older sister. Maybe their mother. Not my mother, obviously, but their mother. My mother wouldn’t be a good role model for a serial killer, much less-” I squeezed her shoulder, and she broke off. “Look, nobody who saw me on television knows anything at all about me. I was never that little girl. Anyway, what kind of role model is a witch? How dumb is that? ‘My role model solves problems with magic.’ So what’s she going to do when she’s seventeen years old and she gets pregnant by some asshole with a stocking cap and a bolt through his lower lip? She going to wave a wand at her stomach? Suppose she marries some jerk who hits her. She’s going to dematerialize before he connects? Actually, if you don’t mind my saying so, that’s a stupid question.” She pointed at someone else. “Your turn.”

  “You were the most famous little girl in America for seven years-”

  “Eight,” Thistle said.

  “Sorry. How has it felt to live in obscurity for the last eight or nine years?”

  “Obscurity?” Thistle said, leaning on the word heavily enough to make it sag in the middle. “I guess that’s one way to put it. It took me a while to adjust to obscurity, to use your word, not to mention poverty and a closer relationship with the world of large insects living under sinks. As you can probably guess, it was very different. Not that it was all bad. You know, in my old life I’d gotten used to having vultures circling around all the time, waiting for me to pick my nose or smoke a cigarette in public so they could deliver it into people’s houses that night. So I didn’t have bugs, but I had vultures. I’d started to think it was normal to have cameras shoved in my face all the time and hear people shout rude questions at me and then, when I was tired of being worked to death or had a stomachache and didn’t answer, they’d say that I wasn’t grateful or something, like they’d made me famous, when all they were really trying to do was take a bite out of me so they could get their forty-five seconds of face time on some shitty cable channel.” She glanced up at me. “Coming because they smell blood and then spitting some of it up on camera. I’d gotten used to having these people live on me, sort of like mold on bread.” I put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. “I can’t really say I missed being part of all that, where people like you make a big deal out of people like me just so you can turn around and start grinding us into sausage.” She stopped and drew a couple of quick breaths. “So, yeah, I had to adjust, but I can’t say I cried myself to sleep every night. Basically, I like the bugs better than I liked the vultures.”

  “But here you are again,” the reporter said nastily.

  “And so are you,” Thistle said. “And a few dozen exactly like you. At least there’s only one of me.”

  I caught a glimpse of motion on the far side of the stage and saw Trey stepping back out of sight. She kept her eyes on Thistle as she pulled out a cell phone and started to dial.

  Thistle pointed at someone else, a female I recognized from local news, where she did stories about how even regular people are interesting, and isn’t that great? “You,” Thistle said.

  “You mentioned your mother a minute ago. Are you speaking to her?”

  “I’m sorry,” Thistle said. “I didn’t hear you.” She started to point at someone else, but the reporter pushed on.

  “Your mother,” she said. “I asked if you-”

  “Can’t hear a word,” Thistle said. “Next.”

  Trey was talking on the phone, saying something sharp if her expression was any indication. Her eyes were still on Thistle. It looked like Trey was reconsidering her resale value.

  “Why are you so hostile?” was the question.

  “Hostile?” Thistle said. “This isn’t hostile. This is just recess, we’re playing together nicely. I mean, come on, let’s at least be honest. You’ve all come here to make an omelet, and I’m the egg you have to break.”

  Trey hung up the phone and came back into the light.

  “Why do you say that?” the reporter asked. “Why do you assume we’re not on your side?”

  “Okay.” Thistle held up two fingers in a V formation. “First, let’s forget personal experience, which I’ve had a lot of. But today, today there are two possible stories, right? Let’s not be hypocrites. You’re all going to leave with one or the other. The first one is, Look, everybody, that cute little kid grew up to be a slut. That’s like the moral high ground angle. Whoever delivers it will probably work up a righteous frown. The second one is, Gee, isn’t it tragic, that cute little kid grew up to be a slut. That’s the compassionate angle, accompanied by a sad shake of the head, and probably mostly from female reporters whose hair won’t move. Maybe one or two of you will take it further and go for a local Emmy, talk about the death of innocence in America or some puke like that. You know, The crooked road out of childhood. Any way you do it, I’m a slut, and probably a drug addict, and how much would you enjoy being up here while all of you pretend to be so fucking sympathetic?” She waved the question away. “Next,” she said, aiming a finger at someone.

  “We’ve all heard rumors about your drug use,” said a reporter from some print outlet, armed with nothing but a little notebook.

  “Is there a question there?” Thistle asked. “And when’s somebody going to ask whether my feet smell?”

  “Well, is it true? There were stories that Hollywood Division had arrested you a couple of times and then let you go without pressing charges.”

  “Mmmm-hmmmm.” Thistle gave him an exaggerated nod. “And why do you think they might have done that?”

  “Well …” The man hesitated. “Because of who you were, was the way I heard it.”

  “Don’t we live in interesting times?” Thistle asked. “Imagine. I’d rather be with a bunch of cops who are busting me than hanging around with the guardians of free speech. And you know why? Because cops need evidence. You guys, you guys can turn a whisper in the fucking woods, fourth-hand hearsay, into a minute of gospel truth that makes everybody go Oh my God, and then they miss it when you retract it three days later. Is it any wonder I prefer cops?”

  “But about the drugs,” the reporter said.

  “I never put anything harmful into my system,” Thistle said, “without a qualified medical opinion.” She pointed at a guy at the back of the room. “Over to you.”

  “I have two questions,” said the woman with the orange makeup whom I’d pushed over in the parking lot.

  “And you can keep them, pumpkin-face,” Thistle said. “I wasn’t pointing at-”

  “The first question is how you’ll feel when I sue you because your thug punched me.”

  “I’ll be proud of him,” Thistle said. “I wish I’d punched you.”

  “Hang on,” I said. “You put your goddamn spike heel on her tennis shoe. She had to get through that crowd and you pinned her down. She may have a broken bone in her-”

  “I did not,” the woman said. “I never-”

  “Thistle,” I said. “Show the awful orange lady your shoe.”

  Thistle yanked off the shoe and held it up. She slipped her hand into it, poked a finger through the hole I’d made, and wiggled it. Then she said, “By the way, ow.”

  “I did not do that,” the woman from World Entertainment News said.

  “You’d say that, of course,” Thistle said. “I did not do that,” and suddenly she sounded and looked exactly like the woman she was talking to. It was even more striking than the way she’d done Trey. She continued, in the woman’s voice: “It’s not much of a surprise, is it? I mean, since you wouldn’t recognize the truth if someone handed it to you on a chest x-ray.” A murmur ran around the room.

  “How does it feel,” the woman said, between her teeth, “to be doing porn?”

  “I haven’t done i
t yet,” Thistle said in precisely the same voice. Then she became Thistle again. “So you’d know as much about it as I do.” She gave the woman her sweetest smile and added, “Or maybe more.”

  I leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Okay,” she said. She turned to Trey. “Just a couple more. Let’s see whether anybody can be more awful than her.”

  “Fine,” Trey said, obviously relieved to have gotten this much. Headlines were guaranteed.

  Thistle did what I’d told her to do, pointed at a short guy in the second row. All the print guys had neat little reporters’ notebooks, but the best Louie the Lost had managed in the minutes since I’d called him was a bright yellow legal pad as big and conspicuous as a semaphore.

  “You,” Thistle said. “The handsomest man here.”

  “My question is for Miss Annunziato,” Louie said. He made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entire stage. “Look at those pictures, would you? That’s a little kid up there. So here’s my question. Your family has been in organized crime for decades, but not like this. How do you think your father would like you taking his organization into kiddie porn?”

  26

  Like imitating a hand puppet

  “Well, that went well,” Thistle said as we stepped into the hallway. “Do you think there was one person there I didn’t piss off?”

  “I’m pretty sure Trey was happy,” I said. “Until about ninety seconds ago.”

  I could hear the reporters shouting questions at Trey. The volume dropped as the door swung closed behind us and then grew louder again as it opened, and Thistle’s eyes darted past me and widened into circles, and two arms wrapped themselves around my neck, clamped tight, and lifted me off my feet.

  I got both hands over the upper arm and pulled, kicking back with my heels at his shins, but no go: whoever it was, he’d grabbed the sleeves of his jacket-a plaid that looked familiar-with both hands and was hanging on tight. Then, as I began to choke, he pivoted so I was facing the door that had just swung closed again, and ran me, face-first, into it.

  I saw some neurologically expensive special effects and said something along the lines of “Owww,” and then the guy who was strangling me topped me by saying, “OOOOOWWWWW!” and dropped me. I put a hand against the wall for support and swiveled to see Hacker backing away in his awful plaid suit, his hands cupped over his groin, as Thistle pulled back her foot and launched another kick. This one missed, and she staggered back, flailing her arms to keep from going over backward, but I caught her. The three of us stood there, Thistle panting in my arms, Hacker red-faced and trying not to groan, and me suddenly weak-kneed, a late reaction to near strangulation.

  “What the hell was that?” I demanded.

  “You’re … finished,” Hacker said. He sounded like he had a stone the size of a loaf of bread lodged in his throat. “Wattles and me … we’re going to feed you to the dogs ourselves.”

  “That’s a figure of speech, right?” Thistle said. “Tell me that’s a figure of speech.”

  “This asshole isn’t smart enough to use a figure of speech. What’s got you upset, Hacker? Some kind of clampdown on police corruption?”

  “You … you just wait.”

  “What would make more sense than me just waiting would be you starting at the beginning and telling me what the hell you’re talking about. Presumably, you’re here to deliver some sort of message. And unless you’ve got something really fundamental wrong, which wouldn’t surprise me, feeding me to the dogs is the or else part of it. See, or else should come second.”

  Thistle said, “What dogs?”

  “Tell you later, but they’re not that much worse than those piranhas you just finished with. What about it, Hacker? Aren’t you supposed to be trying to get me to do something?”

  “I saw that, in there,” Hacker said, still breathing hard.

  “Gee, I guess they let just anybody in.”

  “I saw Louie, and don’t you try to tell me you didn’t bring him in.”

  I said, “Louie who?”

  “You even told her,” he said, lifting his chin at Thistle, “to call on him.”

  “He did not,” Thistle said. “He told me it was time to get out of there. I was getting too loaded.”

  “He’s a cop,” I told her.

  Thistle brought her hands to the center of her chest and wrung them. “Oh, my poor little heart, it’s pounding so hard.”

  “Keep it up, you little junkie bitch,” Hacker said. “When this movie is over, you won’t be so fucking immune.”

  “… is over, you won’t be so fucking immune,” Thistle said, doing Hacker to perfection.

  For a moment, Hacker froze. Then he said, “And if you think I’m kidding-”

  “… think I’m kidding,” Thistle said, half a syllable behind him.

  “Cut that out,” Hacker said.

  “Cut that out,” Thistle said. Her tone matched his exactly, and her voice was almost as low as his. Her arms hung loose, the fists semi-balled, shoulders high, chin forward, feet planted wide, corners of the mouth pointed down. Hacker to the quarter-inch.

  Hacker’s right arm came up, a pointed index finger at the end of it, and Thistle’s movement mirrored his precisely. He stopped, mouth half-open, and so did she.

  “See how stupid you look?” I said.

  “Tell her to stop-” he said, and almost in unison, Thistle said, “Tell her to stop-” Hacker choked it off, glaring at her, and got exactly the same glare in return. He opened his mouth. Thistle opened hers. Hacker’s tongue flicked the center of his lower lip, and Thistle’s did the same. For five or six seconds the two of them stood there, immobile as frescoes, and then Thistle said, “Aww, you’re too easy,” and relaxed.

  Hacker waited to make sure she’d really quit. He put his hands on his hips, but she didn’t follow suit. “I still know about Louie,” he said to me. “One more double-cross, one more hint you’re not being straight with us, and you’ll be all over Rabbits’s backyard.” His eyes flicked nervously to Thistle, but she was through playing.

  “See?” I asked. “See how much easier it is when you do things in the right order? There’s the message, errand boy: Do what you’re supposed to or it’s doggie time. Tell you what: You don’t mention Louie to anybody, and I won’t tell Wattles how you screwed this up. And I’ll make sure she stops imitating you.”

  “He’s no fun anyway,” Thistle said. “It’s like imitating a hand puppet.”

  “Just so’s you remember,” Hacker said to me, his eyes going involuntarily to Thistle. He turned to go, and when he was halfway down the hall, he looked back and said to me, “You don’t want that kid of yours to lose her daddy, do you?” I took a couple of steps toward him, and he backed away, saying to Thistle, “And you, chickie, you’re going to have a much bigger day than you think.” Then he turned the corner and was gone.

  “A bigger day?” Thistle asked. “What’s that mean? Are you somebody’s daddy? Where do you think he got that suit? And what was that thing about dogs?”

  “I’m under a certain amount of duress,” I said. “It’s kind of picturesque, but you don’t need to know the details.”

  “If you say so. But, I mean, dogs? That’s like a metaphor, right?”

  “Sure,” I said. “You know, go to the dogs.”

  “That’s real convincing,” she said. “So tell me if there’s something I can do to keep whatever it is from happening to you, I mean, I sort of owe you. And also, let’s find Doc and see if I can’t get taken down a few feet.”

  “Where’d you learn to do that? What you did to Hacker and Trey?”

  “I’ve always been able to do it,” she said. “I used to do it on the show all the time. It’s about the only thing I’ve got left.”

  At that moment there was a burst of male voices, and six guys rounded the corner Hacker had vanished behind. Thistle turned in their direction, and the two of us watched them come. Four white, two black, all in their late twenties or early thirties. I�
�m not generally much on snap judgments, but one sprang to mind then, a word Thistle had recently used: trash. Dressed in jeans, T-shirts, outdated Seattle grunge-rock plaid, leather wristbands, tattoos, and dangling steel bracelets. Chin-patches and sideburns, the ghosts of hairstyles past. Chains jingled at the heels of boots. None of them sparkled with conspicuous cleanliness or intelligence. As they swaggered down the hall, they eyed Thistle openly, even speculatively. They showed no indication of wanting to avoid a collision with us, so I tugged Thistle out of the center of the hall and over to the wall. As they passed, one of the guys closest to her reached out without slowing and touched her lower lip and said, “Hurts, I’ll bet.”

  “Hands to yourself, asshole,” Thistle said.

  “Okay,” the guy said, “no hands.” They all laughed. They walked on down the hall in a cloud of testosterone, one or two of them looking back at her.

  Thistle said, “I’m not feeling good about this.”

  “There you are, sweetie,” someone trilled, and I turned to see Rodd Hull come around the corner, trailed by Tatiana and the girl who had doubled for Thistle-what was her name?

  “Our little star,” Rodd said. He had a clipboard clasped to his chest, but other than that he looked pretty much the same: vest full o’pockets, viewfinder dangling. “Oh, I forgot, you don’t know me from Adam, do you? I’m Rodd Hull.” He waited a moment, apparently anticipating some reaction from Thistle. “Your director,” he added a bit more sharply.

  Thistle said, “Uh-huh.”

  “And here we have Tatiana and, um, I forget your name, darling,” he said to the other girl.

  “Ellie,” she said, as though she was used to it. “Ellie Wynn.”

  “And they’re here to get you ready,” Rodd said. “We’ve had a little schedule change. Since you were so, um, lively in the press conference, we’re going to start with something just a wee bit more ambitious.” He leaned forward and looked at Thistle’s lip, then put his hand under her chin and gently turned her head. “Not bad,” he said. “Maybe keep you in three-quarters.”